Midmorning
by Haggus Benwah
Summary: The concept of Twilight with a whole new cast of characters.  Similar storyline,  but  no characters you'll know or recgonize.


I do not own Stephanie Meyer's work. I don't even own a car. I am taking a spin on Twilight using different characters. That's all.

* * *

From fairest creatures we desire increase,  
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,  
But as the riper should by time decease  
-William Shakespeare

Love is like a boogar, you keep picking at it until you get it, then wonder what to do with it.

CHAPTER 1

If I wrote letters, the first one would have gone to my brother Sam. When we were kids, he showed me where all the crayfish hid, in the soft sand hidden in rocky shallows. Uncovered, in our small lakeside home, were the secret passages and unreachable places that opened up my whole world to me for exploration. He took me into the forest, and hoisted me up the spindly trunks of growing trees, as if I were scaling the sides myself. I was powerful, strong, and tall. He would smile at me from where he was stuck on the ground, and cheer me on while I claimed everything I could see, in a greedy conquest of innocence. We made worlds. They were still up there, ensnared in the branches of pine and birch; drowning in the stillness of underwater. There our memories tangled and died together. It was a cycle of childhood, his devoted to mine. Mine was always all consuming, and now it was at an end.

I had been all throughout my house over the years it had been mine. I had combed every inch inside it, beneath it, and all around it. But now I stood out front, and I saw it from a whole new angle. It stood just tall enough to block out the sun, whose sleepy golden-pink rays tried feebly to claw their way out from behind the attic crawlspace. The windows were like the eyes of the dead. The house was empty now.

My mother, clutching a box full of picture frames and random belongings, stumbled out the sliding plate glass door, and left it ajar behind her. She looked creased and weary, like she was on the verge of falling at any moment. Bags of her various, accumulated possessions dripped off of her like huge, unsightly appendages that weighed down her forearms and sides. Her material seemed to doom her, as if it all wanted nothing more than to drag her down to the center of the earth, where no one would ever see her again. I didn't reach out to help her, or to stop this burial. I was her only daughter, you know. She named me Jules. It means youthful, she used to say. _"Jules rules!"_ She used to say that also. She made shirts that said that for my family when I played youth soccer, even though I was by far the worst one on the team.

Today she didn't look at me, she forced herself not to. Anytime we spoke, it ended in a screaming match between us. She was unhappy. She wanted to quit her job and follow her dreams, and had waited until her children were grown. She still loved us and wanted the larger half of partial custody. I couldn't help my indignation. I maintained my gaze as she swerved around me dangerously, her boxes, bags, and limbs teetering on a reckless slant. She slammed into the side of her car just in time to keep her upright, and, buckling her legs, she was able to fumble around enough for passenger side door to open. I heard birds calling out to one another in the meek forest behind me. The sun finally moved into sight over a low point of the roof. It was a radiant orange gold, and I watched it reflect off of my mothers' sleek strawberry blonde curls. She sighed to herself, and then inhaled. I scraped my foot along the gravel of the driveway. She opened her mouth and closed it again, once...twice…three times. She met my eyes at last, for the briefest of seconds, and I could see she was as afraid as I was. But, god bless her, she kept on going; kept on moving ahead. I can't tell you what was going on with me when I watched her pretty, indigo Hyundai disappear around the familiar curve of the drive. I just watched, silently.

Back in the house, my father, pale now as a ghostly reflection, stood hardened in the slightly open doorway, his hands over his head, as if he were grabbing at some nonexistent hair on the nape of his neck, and preparing to pull on it. If I was a good daughter I would've gone to him, but it was awkward. There weren't enough words between us to broach this, not ever. The full blow had far from taken its course. I took off, towards the patch of light between the woods and the pale yellow home, to where the bright warm sun shone quivering shattered gold onto the lake. It was a blood orange retreating behind the narrow black rind of the opposite banks, and it was still warm. I would never forgive my mother for leaving my father, and maybe it wasn't all for my poor, brittle dad. Part of it was for me, and the fact that we were losing this home, my home. My father was just a diligent plumber. He was weak and arthritic. There was no way he could keep something this beautiful on his own. Beautiful things can never manage to be easy and expensive. "Nothing gold can stay" says Robert Frost.

I was at the docks, the faded dark red docks, and I was still running, the wood plunked beneath my feet, worn and friendly. The sky dared me to jump right into it. Right into that endless violet whispy pink.

My brother and I hadn't spoken in nearly a year. He'd moved out, got a job and a house in some dreary town where it rained all the time. I didn't even know what his job was. He never came back to our home besides holidays, because he was always out of time, but ohhh how a lake child pines for this sky, this feeling, indescribable, as I dropped into the water, a few degrees warmer than the air. I remained underwater, frozen, calm, and easy, I was pensive here.

I didn't know my brother anymore. But I was being sent away right to him, right into that rainy cheerless city, right on the coast in Washington. I would live there until my parents "sorted things out" with the divorce, the house, the possessions, and their now separate lives. I would be there for a while. I spoke my mind, but I tried not to complain, not ever, especially to my selfless, now dirt poor, father. But I was scared. I was scared of vacant hallways and new faces and losing my old friends and not making new ones. I would never show these fears, but they were pertinent now, to me. Underwater, thinking clearly through the comforting pressure, I was calm about the prospect of a new place. I loved new things, I loved making things easier for my father to find a job and get a proper home. I remained angry and betrayed, by my mother, my estranged brother, my best friends who couldn't come with me. Translucent bubbles retreated from my nostrils like terrified beautiful beetles. I had to break the surface, I had to breathe. I didn't know what was coming, but I had to breathe.

* * *

I wondered if I just let everything as it was, if I even held my breath, this quiet car ride would last longer, maybe keep me away from the airport. My father had spent the last half hour apologizing and searching for things to say. As we sped through a completely empty plane, vast on either side of us, I was glad he had finally reverted to a thoughtfully sad silence. I was playing absently with a buzz lightyear ball-in-a-cup game that Jess had given to me hours earlier. It was like a dreamworld where time and space were obsolete, mere hours ago I had been with my 4 dearest friends, with whom which I had shared an inseparable, incomparable summer. My 'infinite summer' had finally met an abrupt end. Bobby, Jess, Natalie, and Kevin were the closest things to brothers and sisters I had ever had since Sam left home. They slipped out of my life, amongst promises to call daily and webcam constantly, like water. It startled me that all my habits could be torn from the bone so easily. My life was a skeleton and I was bare and cold and terrified. My stomach felt like someone was trying to do the wash in it, with acid instead of detergent. The lead lining my innards dropped another foot as I set my ball in cup aside, and noticed the large sign designating the fast approach of the Madison Airport. It was late August, and I was cold. I was always cold. After addressing this problem I would quickly become too hot, and then cold again. For now I held tight my nappy, old purple sweatshirt, indefinitely the most comfortable thing I owned. I could see the fins of planes lurking behind the looming airport building. They were reminiscent of sharks, the most vile creatures on this entire planet. I hated sharks. I also hated zombies, though I doubted that such fears would apply here. If the situation arose where I was trapped in a one on one zombie encounter, I would be ready. My kung fu was strong enough to hold off maybe 4 or 5. I figured I could pry a baton off a security guard by then, or at least find another suitable weapon. Airports were secure which would yield slim pickins for the weapon search, but I'd manage. In the time it had taken me to think through any potential zombie threats, we had already pulled into the unloading area outside the Plexiglas doors. Inside, the first thing I saw were lines of people. Long, long lines. I sighed internally at the thought of waiting in said lines. I prayed I would not be near a sweaty, hairy man. I vaguely wondered how many itineraries of this hour attracted sweaty, hairy men. A quick glance around the platform showed me promising results. Not too many, but a fair amount. I could manage this, I thought reassuringly.

My dad popped the trunk as I got out. I met awkwardly with him there, both of us were reaching for this bulging suitcase I had packed with clothes and sentimentals, the latter taking up most of the room. My father met my eye, green on identical green. His eyes were sad. Mine were sad for his. In jerky motions, totally out of character for my father, he tucked a strand of my flyaway, dark red hair behind my ear. The physical contact between us was strained, but I smiled my hardest at him. His hand fell away after an uncertain moment, and he hoisted my suitcase to the ground. He had been living with painful rheumatoid arthritis for years, and there was nothing he hated more than anyone actually considering his condition, and trying to ease some avoidable pain by physically helping him. With anything.

"Oh …." He began gruffly. In fact, it may not have even been an "oh", it was just his final reach for me with a vowel, and I worried it could mean the beginning of a much anticipated (and feared) emotional meltdown. In a fit of tenderness for my wilting, bald father, I hugged him around the middle and squeezed tight. I was merciful, and would save him the emotional speech.

"I'm going to have to call you so much..make sure you're taking care of yourself and not just eating chef Boyardee."

"Its so damn good…" He sighed, tearfully into my shoulder, holding me back tight.

"I know, believe me, I know. But I'll be a-callin' every week, and if you don't want to mention the heinous amounts of microwave raviolis, then feel free to leave that part out…" I muttered, burying my face in his shoulder. He smelled like a clean living room, spacious and full of air. He smelled like my dad and he smelled like my home. It made my head swim with pleasantries.

"Remember to write too…I can e-mail now!" He urged me eagerly, as we separated and I readjusted my pack on my shoulder.

"Nice dad! Internet skills!" We high-fived. I wondered vaguely when he'd started using the ancient, scary computer that had served the purpose of collecting dust in the office throughout my childhood. The highest grade of technology I'd seen my dad recently use was the clapper light he installed in the living room, solely because he'd thought the jingle was too catchy to ignore. He shrugged smoothly, as if to say 'no biggie' with his very posture.

"I'll call your brother once your flights left. Don't miss it, butthead." He teased me gently. I smiled along, but my smile turned crooked at the sight of sentimental tears glistening in his eyes. A piece of myself was raw, tearing away from me while I looked at him. This was goodbye, the goodbye that would never really be real, but would always be absolute. Nothing would be the same after this. I could feel it. It had been creeping up on me the whole car ride. This was something startling. It overtook me in waves.

"I won't" came my feeble reply. He looked at me for a long time, and I looked at him.

"You'd better take care of the family Jules." He smirked at his own joke, the one I had heard about a million times. I still loved it. Every time it made me smile.

"I will" I obliged, hoping that it was true.

His face again faded into seriousness, to say solemnly: "See ya darlin'."

"Bye dad." I felt myself say, but for once my sonorous voice was lost, stolen away by the crowd and smuggled through the airport security check.


End file.
